


The Accidental Consort

by starkyd7



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Arya Stark to Arya Targaryen!, But Tattoos Are Forever!, Everyone Loves Jealous!Dany, F/F, Femslash, How about Possessive!Dany?, Humor, Love May Be Fleeting, Never Drink and Ride!, Parody, Stargaryen, Westeros Will Never Be The Same
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-26
Updated: 2016-03-04
Packaged: 2018-05-23 06:29:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,245
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6107953
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starkyd7/pseuds/starkyd7
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What happens in Dorne, doesn't necessarily stay in Dorne.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Morning After

**AN: So, by popular vote, The Accidental Consort is becoming its own full-length fic. I have removed the chapter entirely from Between the Lines, and it can now be found here, along with all future installments. Enjoy ;)**

**………**

Arya reluctantly opened one eye, wincing, as bright rays of Dornish sun began to coax her from her stupor. She yawned, breathing in the sweet tang of citrus, and heard the soft rushing of water.

_Dorne. The Water Gardens._

As her perception slowly began to pull itself from the dark mire of unconsciousness, she became aware of multiple discomforts. She closed her eye again and buried her face into the pillow, letting out a slow, controlled breath. Her throat was as dry as the desert sands that surrounded them, and her head was throbbing. Her muscles felt as heavy and bruised as they did after a full day in the practice yard, and the circulation to her right arm had been cut off.

_Dornish wine. Damn. Dornish. Wine._

The northern wolf shifted, discovering that the reason for her lack of circulation was a warm bundle of sleeping Targaryen curled up with her, half-draped across her back. A few strands of long, silver hair fell over Arya’s cheek and shoulder, and Daenerys’ light, steady breath warmed her skin more than the rising sun.

She decided that circulation was overrated.

The Queen had travelled to Dorne both as a diplomatic courtesy after the death of Doran Martell, and to ratify peace agreements with his daughter and the new princess of Dorne, Arianne. Daenerys had also wanted to review a few particulars of Dornish law that she intended to implement across the rest of the Seven Kingdoms, starting with that of equal primogeniture. The dragon had no intention of wasting her throne; she was a woman of vision - and she would forge her will across the entirety of Westeros until it reflected her design.

Arya believed in that vision, so much so that she had left the House of Black and White to offer her sword to the Silver Queen before she’d ever left Essos, fully prepared to cut a bloody swath through the flesh and bone of any opposition who dared to stand in defiance.

When Daenerys finally sat upon the Iron Throne for the first time, Arya was the first to kneel before her as Ruler of the Seven Kingdoms. Pale and bloodspattered, she’d been little more than a child when she’d cleaved the lions who fought for the Red Keep, and Daenerys had knighted her right there, while their blood was still slick on her hands. She became known as the Queen’s Northern Knight.

She was taken as Daenerys’ paramour a few years later, once she had come of age and grown into her title. As such, this was _not_ the first time she’d shared a bed with the Queen, but it _was_ the first time she found herself entangled with the dragon when she was away from the Red Keep conducting political affairs. Dany was not one to mix business with pleasure, especially in unpredictable territory.

There was a soft squeal of hinges as the door to the chamber pushed open and Missandei stepped in, followed closely by two silk-wrapped Dornish servants carrying trays of fresh fruits, juices, and light cakes. Once the servants had laid out breakfast, they each looked to Arya and bowed before stepping back out. Arya sighed. Couldn’t they see Daenerys was still sleeping?

“Good morning, my Queen.”

Arya turned to see Missandei beside the bed, her head bowed.

The Northern Knight’s brow furrowed. “Missandei,” she said in a morning roughened voice, “Dany’s still resting.”

“Of course,” Missandei gave a slight nod. “I’m sure her Grace is very tired. But you are awake. Will you break your fast now, my Queen?”

Arya stared at the Naathi woman in confusion as Dany began to stir.

“Your Grace,” Missandei bowed her head again.

With a beautiful, drowsy clumsiness, Daenerys sat up, resting her head in her hands.

She clearly felt a few discomforts of her own.

The Targaryen reached out a hand, and Missandei brought her a cool glass of water. She drank it, then handed the empty glass back to her handmaiden. “What news, Missandei?” Daenerys asked, her voice hoarse.

The Naathi reached for a small stack of sealed letters set beside the breakfast trays. “The first ravens have already arrived this morning, your Grace. Many lords and ladies of Westeros wishing to be the first to offer you their congratulations.”

Daenerys’ brow creased. “Their congratulations…?”

A small, knowing smile curled Missandei’s lips. “Your marriage, your Grace. They toast both you and your new consort, Arya Stark.”

Arya sat up with a jolt as Daenerys stared, slack-jawed.

“You don’t remember, your Grace?” Missandei asked sweetly.

“I… I think…”

“Perhaps you remember, Arya?” Missandei turned to her, only to be met with the wolf’s blank stare.

“Missandei,” Daenerys looked up at her friend, “what.. exactly happened last night?”

“What is the last thing you remember, your Grace?”

Dany sighed, considering. “I was discussing lines of succession with Arianne. About how I intended to eradicate the archaic patriarchal traditions that the Seven Kingdoms have been following- ”

Missandei nodded. “Yes, that was before you called her a buxom strumpet.”

Dany’s eyes grew wide.

“Arya,” Missandei looked over to the knight. “What is the last thing you remember?”

Arya’s brow creased in concentration. “I… I was sparring.” She said. “With the Sand Snakes. Obara, I think.” A pause. “She was quick. I remember she managed to lash me a few times.”

“She did.” Missandei agreed. “But you did overtake her, in the end. Arianne was very impressed.” Missandei looked back to Daenerys. “So impressed she asked if she could borrow your Northern Knight for the evening. You were quite displeased, your Grace. Even when she informed you that in Dorne, it was not considered a trespass to share a paramour.”

“Well it _should_ be,” Daenerys said, a glint of the dragon in her eye.

Arya looked between the two women, who seemed to have forgotten that she was even there.

“That’s exactly what you said, your Grace. And then you took another glass of wine, and informed Arianne Martell that Arya was not your paramour, that she was your intended consort, and therefore should very much be considered a _trespass_.”

Arya’s jaw dropped.

“Arianne thought you to be bluffing, your Grace,” Missandei continued, “and intended to speak with Arya herself. You took that as a challenge, and informed her that if she didn’t believe you, perhaps she should host the wedding herself, right here at the Water Gardens.”

Daenerys’ eyes grew wider. “And she did…?”

“She did, your Grace. After you took Arya aside to propose, of course.” The Naathi smirked. “It was quite… charming.”

Arya felt herself growing lightheaded.

“Your consort,” Missandei tilted her head toward the Stark, “insisted that you two be married in front of a heart tree, as per northern tradition.”

Arya swallowed. “But.. but there’s no Godswood in Dorne…” she said pathetically.

“No, there is not. But you were determined, my Queen. You went out to the citrus grove and found the largest lemon tree in the orchard. And then you went ahead and carved the face of a weirwood into its trunk. Her Grace was _very_ moved. She loves lemon trees, you know.”

Arya glanced over at her weapons, piled with her clothes on the pink stone floor. She could see dark remnants that could very well pass for dried bark around the edge of her dagger’s blade.

“So you two said your vows before the makeshift old gods,” Missandei continued, “and in front of Arianne Martell and the rest of her house. And when you two returned to the Water Gardens, as per custom, Arianne attempted to hold a bedding ceremony.”

Arya’s breath caught.

“That’s when you insisted that Arianne was a buxom strumpet, your Grace, and said that you would ensure _everyone_ would know you two had bedded regardless of that invasive tradition.” Missandei raised her brow. “And you did not lie. You were _quite_ vocal, your Grace.”

Daenerys shrank down into the bed silks, her pale cheeks blushing a deep scarlet.

“So it’s time to get up now, both of you.” Missandei said with a mischievous twinkle in her eye. “You have Seven Kingdoms to rule."


	2. Wine and Tears

**AN: So, yes. I do know this continuation is overdue, to say the least. But, the fic will actually end up being multichapter, and longer than I first planned.. so.. fair trade?**

**………**

 

Dany felt her fiery blood ignite her cheeks with a heat she didn’t believe possible, as she tightly gripped the Dornish bed silks. The embarrassed branding that flushed her face was matched only by the intensity of the war drums pounding between her ears, and she felt an erogenous ache that verified the truth of at least _part_ of Missandei’s account immediately.

She took a deep breath and closed her eyes, willing herself to calm. She was Daenerys Targaryen, Ruler of the Seven Kingdoms, Queen of the Andals and the First Men, Protector of the Realm, Breaker of Chains, Mother of Dragons, and Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea.

And Arianne Martell should have damn well known better than to try taking what was _hers_.

“So, let me get this straight,” Arya said, finally breaking their long silence. “Dany and I are married. I am hers and she is mine, before gods and men, and – this is _real?_ ”

“It is.” Missandei confirmed with a slight nod. “Signed, sealed and witnessed. There is no changing it now, unless,” the Naathi scribe looked pointedly over at Daenerys, “her Grace wishes to use her Queenly prerogative and have it annulled upon returning to King’s Landing?”

It was what any sane monarch would do given the circumstances, Dany knew. But she had not won the game and conquered Westeros playing by its musty old rulebooks; she wasn’t about to start dusting them off now. And that was to say nothing for the simple fact that she was in love with her knight, and had been so even before she’d taken the northerner as her paramour years before.

Though she regretted the absolutely mortifying circumstances that instigated her third union, she did not regret making Arya her consort.

“Daenerys,” Arya said gruffly, staring intently down at the coverlet draped over them. “I’ll understand, if that’s what you decide to do.”

“I will not.” Dany said, resolved, as Missandei brought her another glass of water. “I am Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, and I have made a sacred vow before the gods. I will not have my people mistake me for some sort of fickle oathbreaker.”

Warm grey eyes caught her own, and Arya’s fists, instinctively clenched at her sides, slackened. The wolf had always understood what she _didn’t_ say out loud as much as any words she _did_ speak.

“Of course not, your Grace.” Missandei said with a knowing smile. “It would be a terrible thing, to disappoint _your people_ so.”

Dany narrowed her bloodshot eyes dangerously at the small scribe, who seemed to be enjoying Dany’s predicament just a little too much.

“Well then,” Missandei cleared her throat and clasped her hands in front of herself, “now that’s settled, we may start attending the current matters at hand. My Queen,” she addressed Arya, “you have a royal fitting within the hour.”

The Northern Knight scowled. “Stop calling me ‘Queen’,” she groused. “And what ‘royal fitting’?”

“You are wed to her Grace,” Missandei said, with the same sweet smile she’d been plying Daenerys with all morning. “We must all address you with an appropriate level of deference. You are not just a sworn sword anymore, after all. And your royal fitting is also reflective of your new station. You are now Arya Targaryen, Consort to Dragons. It would be improper for you to continue traipsing around bearing the direwolf of your father’s House.”

“Arya… Targaryen..?” Arya’s jaw dropped. “But… that…” she huffed indignantly, “why am _I_ the wife?”

Daenerys drank a mouthful of water, and bit her lip. It was all she could do not to burst into a fit of decidedly unqueenly giggles.

Missandei raised an eyebrow. “Surely you did not expect her Grace, Ruler of the Seven Kingdoms and the Mother of Dragons, to forego her proud heritage and embrace the unseemly submission that becoming merely ‘Lady Stark’ would require?”

The wolf winced. “Geeze, when you put it that way…” she raked a hand through her unruly hair, sullen.

“Besides,” Dany chimed in playfully, “it seems that _I_ was the one who actually proposed.”

“That’s right.” Missandei agreed. “And it was truly beautiful, your Grace. By the time you were finished, _everyone_ was crying right along with you.”

Her small victory faltering before it had really even begun, Dany’s face fell. “I… was crying? _In front of people?_ ”

_The blood of the dragon does not weep!_

“Oh yes. It was a very emotional moment for you, your Grace. The words ‘I love you as if we were related!’ have never been spoken with such _passion_ before.”

_…except when she has too much fucking Dornish wine._

Arya smirked, in that way Daenerys usually found irresistible, but now had the Queen tempted to reach over and smack her. “Not a word, my dear consort,” she warned, knowing her mischievous lover well enough to predict what was coming next. “Not. One. Word. Or I’ll ensure that your fitting includes measurements for a beautiful gown-”

Dany watched as mirth slowly gave way to horror.

“-featuring a plunging neckline, and those lacy ruffles that I know you just _love so much_.”

“Such a cruel woman I’ve married,” Arya shook her head ruefully, and sighed. Then, after a quiet moment: “See if I ever start calling you ‘auntie’ to spice things up _now_.”

“Arya!” Dany lunged, getting a face full of fluffy down pillows as the knight quickly rolled off the edge of the bed, narrowly avoiding her wrath.

“I’m sorry,” the former Stark chuckled as she started toward her abandoned pile of clothes. “I just couldn’t resist, and- owch, damn!” Arya stopped with her back to Dany, just short of her pooled garments, and looked down over her shoulder.

Violet eyes grew wide, as they immediately spotted the source of Arya’s irritation. There, on her right asscheek, were Dany’s own enflamed and crudely tattooed initials.

“Missandei,” Arya looked to the scribe as she clumsily pulled on her trousers, “last night when I was sparring with Obara – do you remember if she managed to tag my rear at some point? It stings like the seven hells this morning.”

With a look that betrayed her confusion, Missandei strode around to check Arya’s backside, her mouth forming a small ‘o’ when she made the same discovery Dany had. “ Well, you know,” she started, “that’s actually-”

Dany flailed behind Arya, desperately motioning for Missandei to keep quiet.

“Yes,” the Naathi quickly amended, returning to her original post. “Obara did manage to land a lucky strike before the end of your match.” A pause. “I can have some ointment brought in to you after the fitting, if the hurt becomes too much.”

“No, I’ll be fine,” Arya mumbled through the linen of her shirt as she pulled it over her head. “But thank you.”

There was a soft, sure knock at her door; knuckles wrapped in supple leather hide. “We’ve come to escort Queen Arya to her fitting,” was the muffled declaration from the other side of the oak.

“Don’t call me that!” Arya snapped as she pulled on her boots. “My name is Arya. _Just Arya!_ Or, if you insist on something more formal, I’m also known as the Northern Knight.”

There was silence as the agitated consort buckled her belt, her sword comfortably sheathed at her hip. Then: “Of course, Queen Arya, Northern Knight.”

Arya groaned, her shoulders slumping. “Do I really have to do this?” she gave Dany a pleading look.

“You do. But don’t be so vexed; we both know you look quite dashing in black.” Dany finished with a wink.

“The things I do for the love of my Queen,” Arya muttered, resigned, as she pulled open the great door and stepped out of the bedchamber.

“The things she does indeed.” Missandei let out a long, slow breath. “So, your Grace, about the tattoo on her-”

Dany buried her face into her pillow, the soft, warm darkness effectively silencing the rest of her handmaid’s question.

_No, Missandei, I don’t remember how my initials came to mark my new consort’s backside. But, like most of what happened last night, I am sure it seemed like a good idea at the time…._


	3. Letters from Home

**AN: So, for those new to the fic, or unsure of what to expect moving forward – this will remain a lighthearted, insane work of entertainment. I have written plenty of serious stuff for those who prefer it, but this will never fit into that category. There’ll be no soapbox moral lessons, and no radical social commentary about what is traditionally acceptable in Westeros, etc. This is all about the fun – along with some good ol’ fashioned fluff.**

**Sometimes we all just need to laugh at how ridiculous life can be. Even in fiction.**

**……….**

  
“I’ve… never seen such a _joyful_ heart tree.”

The sun was setting as Daenerys stood hand in hand with Arya in the Water Gardens orchard, in front of the noble lemon tree that had served to witness their vows as per northern tradition. Rough bark had been hewn from the trunk to depict a happy, raised set of eyebrows over two lopsided eyes, a wedged nose, and a wide, cheerful grin.

From beside her, Arya sighed. “It seems my skill with a blade was… diminished, when I set to task here. Though,” she tilted her head and looked at Dany pointedly, “apparently I was not the only one with an unsteady hand last night.”

Daenerys felt a rising blush heat her cheeks in chagrin – a state she’d been practically living in ever since she’d woken up to the aftermath of her carousing – and desperately reached for what was left of her sorely depleted reserves of royal dignity. “We discussed this, Arya. It was an act of _love_.”

The Northerner remained skeptical. “You tattooed your initials on my _ass_ , Dany. You marked me for _life_.”

“Yes, well,” the Queen smirked, “at least I made an honest woman of you, first.”

“I.. well…” Arya blinked, huffed, then shook her head, chuckling. “True enough.” She raked a hand through her tousled dark hair. “Though, I really wish I could remember more of that part.”

Dany tightened her grip on her unexpected consort’s hand as she looked back up at the lemon tree. “I do too,” she said softly. “I’ve been trying to-” she paused, violet eyes catching on a small object sitting on top of one of the upper branches.

It was a candle.

 

_‘Your Grace, please, I beg you to reconsider. At least take a day to think it all through. Wine has been flowing freely, and come the morning-’_

_‘Ser Barristan. Are you questioning my judgement?’_

_‘No, of course not your Grace. I mean only to provide sensible counsel.’_

_‘And now I wish for you to provide only your arm, dear Barristan. Take me to my intended.’_

“Dany?” Arya asked, brow furrowed. “Are you alright?”

Daenerys gave a small nod. “There were candles,” she said. “A beautiful trail of candles, winding all the way through the orchard. And then they lit up this entire tree, where you were waiting.”

 

_‘Who comes before the old gods this night?’_

_‘Daenerys of the House Targaryen comes here to be wed. A woman grown, trueborn and noble, she comes to beg the blessings of the gods. Who comes to claim her?’_

_‘Arya of House Stark. Sworn knight of the Dragon Queen. Also, heir to Winterfell, if, well, the rest of my siblings die. Which could very well happen; ‘cause for some strange reason my entire family seems destined for misfortune-’_

_A throat cleared._

_‘…who gives her?’_

_‘You know, she has a point there, your Grace. Really, perhaps it is not the best idea to bind yourself to-’_

_‘Ser Barristan!’_

_‘…right. Of course.’ A sigh of reluctance. ‘Barristan, of House Selmy. Who is her loyal servant, and captain of her Queensguard.’_

_‘Lady Daenerys, will you take this woman?’_

_‘I take this woman.’_

 

“Do you remember anything else?” Arya asked, hopeful.

Daenerys turned and wrapped her arms around Arya’s neck, and rested her head on the wolf’s shoulder. “I remember I was the happiest that I’ve ever been.”

 

**………**

 

  
Now that she was married again, Daenerys was going to have to set a few boundaries on Missandei’s previously unfettered morning access to her bed chamber.

“Forgive me, your Grace,” the scribe muttered abashedly as she turned away to duck back out the door as Dany hastily disentangled herself from Arya, who dropped her head to the pillow in frustration.

“Let me know when you’re ready to go over today’s agenda,” the Naathi called from the other side of the door.

“Come back in another hour,” Arya called out, grey eyes twinkling with mirth.

“A.. an hour, your Grace?” She repeated hesitantly, awaiting Dany’s confirmation.

Arya sat up, and put a finger to Dany’s lips before she could respond. “At least,” she called out over her shoulder. “I’m the third of _five_ children. We Starks are _lusty_ , Missandei.”

Dany lifted the sheet, and broke into a fit of quiet giggles behind it. She could just picture the small woman’s golden eyes widening as she tried to come up with some form of respectable response, as Arya grinned at her lopsidedly.

As her paramour, Arya had quickly learned how to fluster and embarrass the tiny scribe, while Missandei, in turn, knew just which buttons to push in order to provoke the Northern Knight. It had become a game between the two, throughout the years – one, it seemed, that the bestowed title of ‘consort’ would not change. And Daenerys wouldn’t have it any other way.

There was silence for a few moments, then: “But.. Princess Arianne is hosting breakfast shortly, and.. what.. should I tell her..?”

“Come back in, Missandei,” Dany said with a smile, unable to keep up the ruse any longer. “My wife is ever the rogue; and it seems my stolen day of indulgence as a newly married woman has come to an end.”

“Forgive me your Grace,” the Naathi bowed her head slightly, “but you _did_ want to conclude business here as soon as possible. After breakfast, the princess is going to give you an outline of the Dornish laws you wish to implement across Westeros, as well as discuss the finer details of new peace treaty.”

“Excellent.” The sooner they could leave Dorne, the better. “Any ravens?”

“There are.” Missandei held up a half dozen rolls of parchment, all neatly sealed. “Word from your Hand at the Red Keep as well.”

“Start with that one,” Daenerys said, sitting up as she donned her mantle of command.

Missandei broke the red wax seal, and read the flowing script aloud:

 

_‘The best debauchery the Seven Kingdoms has seen in years, and you leave me here, during **harvest season** , to negotiate land claims and cattle disputes. I’m wounded, your Grace, and nothing short of a full barrel of that fine wine you two were drinking will mend my broken heart.’_

_-Tyrion_

Daenerys rested her head in her hands, and motioned for Missandei to open the next scroll.

 

_‘Once again a Targaryen proves that, like her dragons, she will answer to neither gods nor men, and has married outside of the sacred confines of the Seven. But there is hope yet, for even a deviant may be redeemed by the Mother’s mercy. And the Mother’s mercy is –always– granted to those with generous hearts – please consider making a donation to our glorious Great Sept, that we may bless your aberrant union, and guarantee the salvation of your immortal soul.’_

_-The High Septon_

 

Dany felt the feather mattress beneath her begin to shake as Arya started to laugh. “Really?” Dany cried out, exasperated. “They insult me, and then try to coerce me into buying my way into the Seven Heavens?!”

Missandei snapped another imprinted sigil, this time of a rose.

 

_Your Grace, it is with great enthusiasm that House Tyrell toasts to the good health of both you and your new consort, Arya Stark. As your loyal subjects, we want to impress upon you the progressive and liberal nature of our House. ‘The dragon has three heads,’ so it is said, and should you wish to take a second wife, I want to assure you that my granddaughter Margaery would be an excellent-_

 

“Just stop,” Daenerys groaned. “On second thought, no more ravens.”

“There’s just one more, your Grace,” Missandei said, “also from Tyrion. It’s addressed to your new consort.”

“Me?” Arya raised an eyebrow.

 

_Queen Daenerys’ hand in marriage, **and** a proposition from Arianne Martell? Once you return you must tell me, in copious detail, exactly how this all came about. The gods have gifted you, good knight, and I fully intend to take hold of whatever favor you are blessed with and use it for my own nefarious, yet delightful, purposes. _

_-Tyrion_

_P.S. Please remind Daenerys to bring back some of that wine._

 

Daenerys sighed, and briefly considered sailing back across the Narrow Sea.


End file.
